


As A Funeral Drum

by silence_that_never_stares_back



Series: Cricket [1]
Category: Pink Floyd
Genre: M/M, Multi, There's some polyamory but it's really short, may be ooc, short sweet sequence-style fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 23:11:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13557579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silence_that_never_stares_back/pseuds/silence_that_never_stares_back
Summary: Roger dwells on bed sharing, flowers, silly pet names, and what the people in his life mean to him.





	As A Funeral Drum

**Author's Note:**

> Research disclaimer-may not be entirely accurate to the Pink Floyd timeline; David joins the band a year earlier than he technically should.
> 
> Moral disclaimer- the coping mechanisms mentioned near the middle aren't healthy, so don't try it at home. Not as bad as my other works but still.

_14 August (Late 60’s), Cambridgeshire_

The band pulled together enough money to afford a hotel for a night, and they were careful to cut off every expense they could. When one sang songs for a living, this sort of thing was bound to happen. They weren’t _poor,_ but they certainly couldn’t afford to waste anything.  Hell, even the cloth-flower bracelet Roger bought David as a half-joke seemed to be too much a cost.

Either way, they weren't rich, and this was one of those times where they went a bit of a ways to play a gig. It wasn't even formal enough to be an official tour, but away from home they were, and it was out of the question to stay anywhere else.

Thus, they shared a postage stamp sized suite, one of those cheap motel places where the rooms smell like too much lavender aerosol. Nick and Rick got the admittedly comfy couch in the parlor (which was approximately the size of a walk-in closet), and Syd chose a soft beanbag-like chair in the hallway. Syd gave Roger and David the bed.

“There's only room on the bed for two- I thought it'd be best to give you two some privacy,” he explained. “Georgie, do share the blankets with David, I don't want him being too cold. There you go.”

“I wish we could all share the bed,” Roger whined. It was an odd bond the three shared, but they made it work somehow. Sloppy kisses and a generous dose of idealism helped a lot, and heart-to-hearts and long playing sessions helped even more. Polyamory was the technical term, but to tell the truth, they didn't care about technicalities. "I mean, really, Syd, I'm sure that I can curl up here."

"Yeah, it's not exactly fair to you."

“Well," Syd pointed out, "it's already a small bed. We'd have to sleep on top of each other! Like sandwiches...”

“It's not such a bad arrangement, then.” The bassist winked.

“Dirty thoughts,” Syd lightheartedly chastised, "but there'll always be other times, and I don't want you two being uncomfortable." He blew them a kiss before turning out the light. “See you, Georgie. Bye, David. I'll see you in the morning.”

After Syd left, David turned to Roger as they climbed into bed.

_“Georgie?”_ asked the guitarist as he undid the flower bracelet, putting it on the bedside table.

“Yeah.”

“Who the hell is George?”

“That's my first name, silly, I just go by my middle one. Kinda like how Syd's real name is Roger?”

“I _know_ that, but still! It's weird to think of you as anyone else but... Hey, lend me some blanket, I'm freezing.”

“Hm. There you go.” Roger mused on the thought a bit longer. “If you don’t think of me as anything else, does this mean you don’t use pet names? Like how sometimes Syd calls me darling?”

“You call me Dave. That’s real creativity there, Roger.”

“Don't be rude,” the bassist teased, tapping David on the ear with a pillow. “I save my creativity for the bass, thank you. But who am I to you?”

The guitarist laughed. His eyes sparkled something fierce, like burning stars in a fire. “That's easy. I think of you as ‘cricket’.”

“... May I ask-”

“No.”

Roger grinned. Really, it _was_ a strange term, but it sounded cute, and if it was just something that they could say among themselves, then it was sweet and simple enough to keep Roger happy.

“You know, Dave, I say this to Syd more than I say it to you, and I'm sorry, but… I really love you. I mean you. Don't forget it.”

“You mean it?”

Roger kissed his lover's forehead before pulling back, giving a slight nod. David replied, voice soft as he placed his hand under Roger's shirt.

“I love you too. And I won't forget.”

* * *

_17 April 1975, Denver, Colorado_

_Wish You Were Here tour_

Roger was scrawling down some lyrics when he heard David crying. Once the realization set in, he ran down the hallway as fast as he could.

“Dave?” he shouted. “What’s wrong?” He fought a short war against the door handle, flinging it open and confronting the sight in front of him.

The suite was huge, with things scattered all about, but Roger’s eyes fell upon the person that occupied the bed. David was huddled under blankets, only his face uncovered. It was obvious he was crying, though the way he had moved made it hard to see any tears. Still, those shaky breaths and little sighs were unmistakable, and the guitarist's shivering got rid of any doubt.

“Just go back to whatever you were doing,” David half begged. “I'll make you some hot tea or something, Roger, just let me- you like jasmine, right?”

“Nod if you want me to stay.”

David froze before gazing down, nodding as if spiting himself.

“Did you dream of him again?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Roger took steady steps over. “Look, we all miss him… And I know that recent phone call certainly hasn’t _helped_ matters-”

“I caused it.” David took the pause of shock as an invitation to go forward. “If I did something- don’t you think he’d be better?”

“It’s not right for you to ask yourself those questions.”

“Right. I suppose not,” David murmured as he shifted the blanket. “Join me?”

“I'm not gonna be some fucking replacement for him, Dave. Not after the-”

“Not like _that_ , you dolt. I wouldn’t do that to you again.” The shame of that night still stuck with them both. “Just, y'know, hugging or embracing or whatever the hell you wanna call it.” Roger couldn't see his face, but it was worth a bet that David was blushing at this point, and crying, and in all sorts of states he didn’t want to be in.

“All right.”

Roger had to admit, he liked cuddling, even though the very concept made his pride ache. With David alone, however, things were a bit different. Every brush against each other's skin made them feel worse, but it was a shared misery, like crying with someone instead of crying alone. Feeling the warmth of another was a comfort, but every time David wrapped around Roger, as carelessly and as meaninglessly as hugging a groupie or pillow, it made the bassist's eyes water.

“You know. I hate saying I need hugs, cricket.”

“Same here. But that’s just my pride getting in the way, I suppose.”

“Never thought you’d say that.”

“Yeah, well. Someone had to.”

“I'm sorry.” David's breath caught, and Roger had to remind himself that he was in control of his feelings, that he wasn't going to dissolve now.

“Don't be.”

“I’m not giving you the attention I ought to ever since we, you know, got so rich so fast. I mean, we get angry in the studio, and… And the song we wrote for Syd-!”

“You miss him. I do, too.”

David let out a sad giggle. “We even loved him, didn't we? When he left the band? We told him that we'd fallen apart, we said it’d make it easier for him if we said that, but… was it even true?”

The world paused. Roger found himself praying to anything that would listen (he never believed that anything could hear a prayer, but here he was) that David wouldn't see through him, that he wouldn't tell that deeply, desperately, the bassist still adored the missing man, but he adored David just as much. Was it really a betrayal if they both felt so, if they were so goddamn transparent about it?

“David, really, we're fucking cuddling. It's not the best time to ask.”

“Right.” The guitarist sighed as he held his hand out, playing with his companion's hair. “When we helped him out with that album he wrote, we left his mistakes on purpose… That's what kills me. We tried to shock him into attention. We didn't even care if anyone...”

“Yeah, that was pretty shitty of us, but we were just stupid kids then too.”

“Did Syd forgive us?”

Syd never really accused them, but Roger remembered hearing his voice over the phone, that voice that was broken and sad and anything but forgiving. Since then, he told himself _it's hopeless he didn't forgive us we fucked up beyond repair._ But when David cried like this, Roger decided a white lie couldn't hurt.

“Yeah. He called me and told me he forgave us for what we did. It's alright, Dave. Please don't cry anymore.”

“Did he say he loved us still?”

The bassist paused, thinking of a lie that could be used, anything that he could say before coming up with something.

“He didn't say that. He's moved on. But he said that some time, long ago, he dreamed of us. He said they were nice dreams.”

David smiled before cuddling into Roger’s embrace. That was answer enough.

“Of course it was a nice dream,” he murmured, "if you were in it.”

* * *

_Christmas Eve, 1987, Hampton (Greater London)_

_Astoria Houseboat, River Thames_

“What part,” David announced for the fifth time, “is confusing? You're _right_ here. Look at it. It says, 'Mr. Waters has the rights to _The Wall_ concept and the design of the pig featured on the cover of  _Animals,_ and the Pink Floyd name belongs to Misters Mason, Gilmour, and Wright. Mr. Roger 'Syd’ Barrett's financial arrangements remain unchanged, payable by the remaining members of Pink Floyd', and Roger, you can feel free to get the _fuck_ out of my house.”

_“What?”_

Roger half expected these arrangements to be a joke. This entire time they argued and debated, the bassist half expected David to give him a soft smile, to whisper “I don't hold it against you”, to do _something_ other than stare at him with fierce eyes- this was a glare he'd only ever gotten in the studio when discussing songs. The heat became personal.

“I said to get the fuck out of my house.”

“David, you meant every bad thing you said about me?”

“You called our band 'a spent force creatively'.”

“It was! We weren't doing anything new!”

“You told me my lyrics were, and I quote, ‘utter pig shit’, and put out an album I really loved before I could add anything. Yes, I was lazy part of the time, and I'm sorry I didn't write fast enough, but you even left out my name on the credits! You sued me, in High Court, over the band, and please don't hit the wall, you'll knock over a shelf.”

Roger didn't notice he'd been backing up.

“You wanted to come over, just to have me explain all this to you, and I let you argue all this out with me! These are the terms, Roger! You’ve won! What, are you just upset that the band hasn’t dissolved without you?”

“I didn't want the band to end…”

“Sure you did, love.” David smiled. Roger became aware of every sound in the house as his mind tried to distract itself- a tea kettle was whistling and Roger's heart was skipping beats pell-mell. “That's why you sued us. That's why Mr. Walton spent nine hours typing out that paragraph I just read you. That's why you testified that without you, none of us could be considered Pink Floyd.”

“I'm sorry! Isn't that…”

“I'm sorry too, Roger, but we're still here. We're not going to blow up our dreams just because you chose an album over your friends. Over me. And why are you laughing?”

“Nothing, it's just… I've remembered something. From back when all our problems could be solved by a quick fuck and a heart-to-heart.”

David paused before his smile grew a bit bigger. It wasn't a warm or kind gesture. “Heh. Those were good times, aren't they?”

“Yes. Perfect times.”

“But you've fucked up this time, and I don't think there's fixing it.”

The bassist- no, the _musician,_ he wasn't their bassist anymore- found himself off the houseboat David owned, staring at the falling snow and imagining the falling score, a song, a deafening decrescendo.

It was freezing as he walked to his Pontiac, and he was getting older and getting colder and the thought terrified him. The trees were only five metres off, but to Roger they might as well have been black spindles on the horizon, so far off it seemed two dimensional. Back in that houseboat, David would probably be enjoying a cup of coffee, some food, anything, something to ground him to the reality, and _Jesus Christ-_

Roger didn't believe in anything beyond what he could observe, but he had faith in inevitabilities, that some things were meant to happen in life, that an oil-and-water mixture of logic and human fallacy drew people together. It was rather like stitching a dress; the way the pieces were cut made the outcome inevitable. Wasn't this it? Were David and him just not to be- or worse, were they always meant to be apart now? He yelled and screeched in his car, shouting _Fuck, I'm such an idiot! I thought we'd make up…_ His fists hit the steering wheel; the geese were scared off before the horn sounded, but it certainly didn't help matters. _I hope your houseboat sinks. I don't really hope that, I'm sorry, we'd make it through, oh God, I'm sorry, I really am-_

“Open the window, will you, cricket, I'm trying to hand you something.”

Roger didn't take the time to identify that muffled voice. The musician rolled down the window, in spite of himself, only to see David, his face tear stained but calm all the same. His red scarf kept him warm, but the cold hit Roger like a punch in the neck.

“Here you go,” he muttered, handing over a few things. “Thought it'd help.” He nodded, in half-acknowledgment. “See you next Christmas, eh, Georgie?”

“If I'm not touring,” Roger managed to say, “I'll see if I can.”

As soon as David was inside the houseboat, Roger felt free to acknowledge what he had been handed. Whether he was crying tears of joy or sadness, nostalgia or hope… well-

In his left hand, there lay a flower bracelet that had the scent of too much lavender aerosol.

His right hand gripped a mug of jasmine tea. The contents were hot, sweet, slid easily down the throat. Roger let out a whimper as he read the note on it.

_For cricket_

_Thought you needed help keeping warm._

**Author's Note:**

> The album David mentions (W/ Syd): The Madcap Laughs, by Syd Barrett. Producers included Gilmour, Peter Jenner, and Waters; Gilmour and Waters chose to release unfinished tracks. This move was considered, "like dirty linen in public", "unnecessary", and "unkind".  
> The album David mentions (on the houseboat): The Final Cut.  
> The houseboat: Gilmour and Waters did negotiate the terms on a houseboat.  
> Details have been changed.  
> Thanks for reading. I hope to see you next time. :3


End file.
